


It's Just a Different Game

by silver0wings



Series: Merc' the Jerk [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Amputation, Murder, Transphobia, mercury black is trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver0wings/pseuds/silver0wings
Summary: Marcus is pissed that Mercury took away one of his favorite playthings.My take on the night Merc' got his legs.





	It's Just a Different Game

"Hey kid-" 

"Sorry pops, got a job of my own. Be gone a while." 

I tense up and wait. A blow to the back of the head, or him to push at the back of my knee so I fall, the start of a fight that leads to me being battered up. That's what happened last time I said I was running off, and I expect it this time, expect it to be worse. 

But it doesn't come. 

Last time I pulled this type of stunt, he was pissed. Kicked my ass for making plans that he didn't know about, and then let me go and do them anyhow. A week later when I turned up without breasts and with two sets of pretty stitches, he made sure I knew just how upset he was I'd taken away one of his favorite things. 

I still can feel the exact places fingers dug into my legs, pushing well past the range of motion, until one hip popped right out of its socket. 

The scars where flesh was cut so those same fingers could reach in and shove the bone back to its socket are still there, they ache at the memory. 

After that time, I almost considered not going through with this. 

But I need this. 

I need to do this. 

He looks at me, face blank but I know he's trying to figure out what I'm up to. His shoulders shrug, and he turns back to his desk, tinkering away with metal and circuits. "Don't get dead." And that's it. 

For a brief moment, I wonder why it was so easy. He's been working a lot on his machine projects, taking fewer jobs so he can focus. I've been... Bored, without him tossing me a job, without a game to play. 

Is what why I'm doing this? Because I'm bored? 

No. This isn't boredom. This isn't an act to get him to notice and pay attention to me. This is entirely for me and not him. 

Shoving the thoughts down, I grab my bags before he can change his mind. I'm off in the next few minutes. I'll be back, I'll come back home. I can't just leave him, even if it hurts, I can't. 

He's not that bad. 

He lets me get away with this, lets me forge his name and take as much money as I need without question. It wasn't a few bucks here and there, either. This time it was enough to buy a fancy house, loaded up in my bag as I made my way to the transportation station down the road in silence. 

I know exactly where I'm going. I'm going to the under the table hospital I'd been to so many times before, to get some under the belt adjustments. 

Always amazed me, the things modern medicine can do. How doctors could apply the same technology used to make a hyper realistic replacement limb to make- well, alright. They were basically still making a hyper realistic replacement limb in my case. But my body's never had the part in question, so there's no stump to just snap it onto. There's no promise that it'll work the same, but I don't care. 

I'm sick of feeling incomplete every time I look down. 

I _Need_ this. 

The day goes by in a blur. Arriving there, checking in, payment up front, final tests. It feels like seconds as it all passes. 

There's new staff again, nurses who don't know my face, who ask if there's anyone for me in the waiting room and what a kid like me is doing in a place like this. Why I've got as many scars as I do. If I want to call anyone before I do this. 

They're kind, but don't understand. I don't mind much. I'm used to people not understanding. 

I wake up sore and groggy. There's quiet beeps of machines, no one around. No one to stop me from sitting up too fast and looking under the sheets. 

The only times I've ever truly been speechless is when dad's run my voice raw or during an asthma attack. But now? I'm speechless from nothing more than emotion. 

Had stitches and drains and medical crap all in place, didn't look perfect and pretty, it looked like a body part that had just undergone major surgery. 

But it was there. Finally had the very thing I'd been wanting for years, right between my legs where it should've been when I was born. 

Finally felt like I was looking at what's meant to be there. 

The private hospital room was my home for a week. I could've left sooner. I really could have, but I was nervous about going back home. He wasn't going to be happy, there'd be a beating, but I've had those before, it's no big deal. 

Nothing's ever a big deal. Not as long as the end result is what I want. 

I finally find my balls (HA!) and check myself out. I was more than recovering well enough to leave, just needed to check back again soon to make sure I didn't suddenly spiral downwards. 

With pain killers still swimming through my system, the trip home isn't all that nerve racking. The calm of night also helps; there are fewer people around, fewer people to side eye me and wonder what someone like me is doing sitting on the late bus, trying to get a hospital wristband off. 

Stupid thing just wouldn't let go. I give up and leave it in place in the end. 

I'm not used to it yet. It's weird in a way, having something there that I can feel instead of a plastic part used for the sake of appearance. Every handful of minutes, I fight an internal battle over whether I should try and adjust or just suck it up and deal. 

For possibly the first time, discomfort wins, and I tug at my orange sweat pants for the sake of being comfortable. 

I slip off my shoes before coming in through the door, figuring soft bare feet would make less sound than my shoes. I know the way back to my room by heart, know which floor boards to avoid and where all the clutter is despite not being able to see in the dark. 

My hand reaches for the doorknob, and two rough hands find my hips, slamming them forwards. 

Fuck, I was hoping he was asleep. 

"Missed you." His lips are at the back of my neck, and I can smell the alcohol on them. He's pushing and touching and tugging at my pants, drunken and clumsy and sloppy about it. 

He's always drunken and sloppy when he does this. 

I don't speak, don't move. I stare blankly forwards, eyes watching the wood of the door, unfocused. There wasn't any stopping this, but there wasn't a need for me to play into it. He had plenty of fun if I just rag-dolled through it. 

He makes a tsk sound when I don't answer, and his hand finds the front of my pants, slipping under the waistband. Calloused fingers squeeze very much tender and still raw flesh, and the sound I make in response is a whimper at best. 

"The fuck is this?" 

Another squeeze, a stroke. His fingers explore and prod, searching for some edge, clearly thinking this was some toy or prop, not a part of me made of synthetic flesh with blood coursing through it.

When he can't find a way to get rid of it, to get at the hole he pushed into so many times, he gets mad. His hands pull back entirely. I don't have to turn to see the shock and horror on his face, I can feel it in the air. 

I took away his game. 

There was hell to pay for that. 

The first blow hits me just under my ribs, and I fall right to the floor. Next comes the kicking, and I curl up trying to protect myself. Just let him work it out, get it out of his system, he'll get bored if I just stay down. 

I lose track of how many times I've been hit, spat on, and kicked pretty quick. 

Somehow I end up back on my feet, him pulling and tugging me into his workshop, where I last saw him working on some metal thing. 

Whatever was on the table gets shove right to the floor, and my back replaces it. 

This isn't what normally happens. 

This isn't what was supposed to happen. 

He was supposed to get bored and leave me to patch myself up. Supposed to be angry and disappointed, but not like this, not this bad. 

I struggle when a set of handcuffs forces my wrists above my head, and I find myself unable to get away when a strap fits around my stomach. I kick out, and he grabs my foot. 

"Such a big man now, aren't you? Fuckin' vile thing. Disgustin'. Had to go and ruin yourself." 

He spits again, wet landing on my face. I kick, landing a good hit to his collarbone. My breathing picks up, bordering on panic as he yanks my leg. 

"Ow-" 

"Oh, you gonna cry now? Thought you said you were a man. Don't fuckin' start weeping now, we haven't even started." 

I lose my pants, and the boxers beneath. Brand new and smooth flesh too exposed. I try and twist and hide, but he's got a hold on my leg again, pushing it forward against my chest. 

There's a sick feeling in my stomach, tears down my cheeks and screams in my throat. 

There's nothing on his face that tells me he feels the same. 

I'm sure he feels nothing when he drags a knife against my thigh. 

"Stop stop- stop-" 

"You won't stop kicking, I've got to get rid of it." 

I feel the blood dripping as he keeps cutting, and I pass out. 

I wake to grunts and him over me, each movement too tight and burning. I try to kick again, and to my horror, there's no leg left attached. 

I can't move. I can't scream anymore. I can't fight. 

All I can do is lay and be fucked and silently beg that it ends fast. 

I feel it when he finishes, removing himself and walking to the other side of the workshop. He's speaking, but his words don't process, don't mean anything to my ears. 

I feel too hallowed and emptied to think. 

He keeps speaking, and I wish he'd stop. He touches my legs, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Every time I look I feel bile rise again. 

Would he stop if I throw up?

I fight to keep awake, afraid of what he'll do if he realizes I'm unconscious again. Afraid of what he's doing right now, that I'm too afraid to look at. 

Hours of pain and too rough touches go by. He gets bored of playing with my legs twice, instead finding his way between them to have another go, and another, and another. . . 

He says it wouldn't hurt if he had holes to chose from, and reminds me I took that away. That I caused this. 

My eyes open. He's not anywhere any sight, the workshop dark. I feel cold and shaking, but I'm not bound to the table anymore. I'm naked from the waist down, a sickening mix of blood and sweat and- fuck, I don't want to think about it. 

I sit up and reach for my discarded pants, but slip in a pool of - don't think about it. Don't think about what that is- and my head slams against the table. 

"DAMMIT!" 

I sit again, and I can feel my feet touch the ground. It doesn't feel right. Solid and heavy, too hard, no give. Those. Aren't my feet. 

Whatever was in my stomach joins the mixed fluids on the table as I realize why he kept touching my legs after cutting them. 

He took them and replaced them with these _things_. 

Anger surges through me as I wipe vomit on the back of my wrist. I have to fight to get these metal things through my pants legs, not bothering to find where my underwear went. 

This was it. 

This was my breaking point. 

He could hit me, touch me, fuck me. He could do anything and I didn't care, except for this. I wouldn't let him get away with this. 

With one hand gripping the edge of the table, I take the first few steps. The place where metal meets flesh is already bleeding, but I can walk. I can do this. This'll work. 

I know where he keeps the bandages, have no problem finding them. I don't want to undo my pants and look at those things again, so I wrap them around the outside the best I can and hope it'll do. 

There's no being quiet with two metal hunks slamming and stomping against the floor. 

I find him in the kitchen, cooking like there's nothing wrong. Like he isn't covered in my blood. Like this is just some Friday night, and he doesn't give a shit about what he's done. 

"I'm gonna kill you." 

The fight starts with me trying to kick him, but the metal foot smashing through the oven's front door instead. These were gonna take some getting used to. 

We go back and forth across the house, smoke filling the rooms and fire consuming everything it touches. I shout and swear and curse his name, and he says nothing. 

He's better than I am. Been fighting longer and knows my weak spots. But he isn't a man who's been pushed over the line. He's not the one with fire in his heart and murder in his eyes. He's not the one who's giving every ounce he has to see hell end. He's not the one who's walking away from this. He's not the one who's gonna kill me. 

I'm the one who's gonna kill him. 

The house goes up in flames, and we fight outside. I start blocking more of his hits, and I get a damn lucky kick to the side of his head. 

He falls on the ground, finally speaks. 

"You don't have the balls to do it." 

I lay that metal foot against his throat and keep on pressing down. He struggles, hits the metal, pulls and gasps. 

When he stills, I keep the pressure on for another minute more to ensure he's not faking. I kick him over. He doesn't move. A pulse check and minute of waiting for a surprise attack, and I'm sure he's dead. 

He's. Dead. 

. . . 

I killed him. 

. . . 

_Dead_. 

. . . 

What do I do now? 

Where do I go?

I'm fucking sixteen years old, a murderer, a recent double amputee, and don't know anyone who's willing to give me the time of day, let alone anything useful.

I just killed my father and I've got NOWHERE to go. 

I stand, still unsure of where it is I'm heading. Dizziness nearly brings me to the ground again, adrenaline starting to fade and pain starting to overwhelm me. 

Walking becomes my personal hell as I try to make it down the road. 

I've been looking down, trying to watch my footing so I don't fall, so I'm surprised to see two people staring at me when I finally look up. 

"What're you lookin' at?" I pant out the words, feeling about to fall over. I look like a weak mess who can't handle a simple job, like this is my first time doing this. Like I don't know how to play the game. 

I wish they weren't here. Wish I was alone. 

The dark haired, older looking, one speaks, "I'm looking for Marcus Black." She's got a soft voice, but it means business and leaves no place to question or push back.

I spit and look behind me, realizing I've maybe made it ten steps away from the body. It felt like I've been trying to walk for hours, how could I have made so little distance? "There you go." 

"That's... The assassin?" Little miss green hair sounds so shocked, and looks ready to draw one of those- what are those? Knives? Guns? Both? Fuck what was wrong with people. Just pick one and stick with it. 

A deadly smile crosses the older woman's lips, eyes lit with something I recognize as malicious intent and evil plans. I've worn that look many times, and so did my dad. "And you're his son." 

I nod to confirm, about to ask why it matters. 

"We saw your fight, from the treeline. He's taught you well." 

"Guess so." My voice sounds so shaken. I hope they realize it's from blood loss and don't think I'm weak. 

"What's your name?" The question catches me off guard, brows furrowing. I'm in too much pain to think clearly and lie like I should, so I give an answer that's pretty true. 

"Mercury." I've said that name maybe three times before, and to people I know will be dead within the minute. I've never properly introduced myself to someone I'm not about to kill. 

I like saying it. 

"Mercury," that's the first time anyone's called me it. I think I like hearing it more than I like saying it. "Tell me, are you anything like your father?" 

I don't answer for a while, looking back at the corpse. When I find words, I also find the ability to smirk through the pain. "I don't die as easy as him." 

She seems pleased with that, but little miss green hair looks apprehensive, distrusting me since the moment she saw me. 

When she says I can come with her, she knows I'm not in a place to say no. She knows I'm bleeding bad and need help. She knows that I know, that I'm smart enough to take the offered hand so I can live another day, and think the consequences over later. 

She knows that in that moment, when I say "yes," that I'm caught in her web and forever stuck. 

As they help me, one under each of my shoulders to take my weight, I think I'm just fine being stuck in her web. 

I'm okay being with someone who's promising that I won't bleed to death. I'm okay killing for her if it means I won't die. I'm okay being her pawn instead of my dad's. 

After all, 

It's just a different game.


End file.
